


The Dark Lord's Appetite

by herladyofprose



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Gluttony, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herladyofprose/pseuds/herladyofprose
Summary: The Dark Lord does not like his teachings to be forgotten. The High Priest of the Church of Night must remember one relating to cardinal sin.(Written for my boyfriend.)





	The Dark Lord's Appetite

“Praise Satan, the Feast Day has ended,” Faustus grumbled, stumbling into his office with blood still caked on his pale countenance. “If I have to participate in another one of those, I’ll have to start wearing a girdle.” As he rounded the large, burnished oak desk in the center of the room, he drummed the triangular claws of his fingernails upon the waxed surface, and held his other hand to his belly. Barely noticeable, but noticeable nonetheless, it sat a bit further out then he would have liked. The Feast of Feasts always did that to him, and he had to wear looser fitting vestments to hide it.

The Dark Lord seethed with ire at this lack of desire, this bemoaning absence of gluttony, one of the primary tenets and Unholy Virtues of the Church of Night. High Priests were to be exemplars of the church’s teachings. Faustus knew this, but the bargain for power that he had made had perhaps softened into one of complacency. He ate during the Feast of Feasts, that enthusiasm faded after the act. He did not truly feast, nor did he bask in it. It was time for that to change. Such were the ways of the Dark Lord.

\--

“Father Blackwood! It is so good to welcome you into our humble house. Please, come in,” Zelda sang as she opened the door to the cavernous Spellman Estate. It was the week after the Feast Day, and a standing date ensured Faustus would be there, alone, with the object of his affections. Well, one of several.

“No need for an excess of praise, Sister. I… In Satan’s name, what is that wonderfully hellish aroma?”

“Oh, yes,” Zelda lilted, leading Faustus toward the dining room beneath strange carvings and bizarre portraits. “At the Feast of Feasts I noticed your… enthusiasm. I wanted to show you I appreciate such enthusiasm, even encourage it. I’ve taken the liberty of spending the entire day in the kitchen specifically for this moment. I hope you’re hungry, Father?”

“Sister Spellman…” Faustus breathed, his shock audible, as he took in the grand array of foodstuff that had been prepared for this night.

“I know,” Zelda could not hide the nervous timbre in her laugh, “I outdid myself. I suppose it was a chance to put magic to a practical use, and to relieve a bit of stress.”

“Well done, Sister. Your devotion is recognized. The Church of Night swells with pride at your… offering.” Faustus rested his cane against the wall and took to a seat at the head of the table, the length of which appeared insurmountable, unending. Upon it were dishes that put any mortal holiday to shame. Large roasts, buttered potatoes, and other savory fare. Dotted around were extravagantly decorated cakes and pies etched with images of ritual devotion and demonic beasts.

“All this for the two of us?”

“It will be enough, I hope.” Her knowing wink distracted him briefly, then he recognized, on the phonograph, an aria from Faust.

“I wanted to impress you, in the name of our Dark Lord. Feeding our High Priest is feeding the Church of the Night. And the Beast.” Zelda smiled an easy smile and sat down on Faustus’ left side, just a few feet from him, in a chair not half as ornate as his. “Shall we say grace?”

The both bowed their heads in perfect sync, fingers tented into steeples. It was Faustus who broke a moment of silence with the words of grace.

“We are gathered here, children of Satan, worshippers of His Perfection and Evil, to break bread. To renew our bonds. In these times of uncertainty, may the light of Satan guide us.”

Zelda lifted her head. “Hail Satan.” She immediately began the laborious process of serving Father Blackwood. Large central dishes all contributed to a large plate of food that glistened with the sybaritic excess of fine ingredients cooked in rich fats.

“Exquisite work,” Faustus mumbled, tucking into his plate with a spindly fork and knife. There was a certain quality, perhaps in the food, perhaps in the evening, that struck him in ways he hadn’t dreamed. The Feast of Feasts was one thing, but feeling gluttony’s sinfulness, really feeling it, was another. He hadn’t ever thought of it. Why now?

For several minutes, Faustus ate uninterrupted. In his peripheral vision he noticed Zelda, red hair and pink skin shining under the soft light of the dining room. She twisted her fork around on an empty plate, all the while smiling at him as he shoveled roast into his mouth, spiral cut ham, and slices of a hearty meat pie that stuck to his ribs. Every meat sported a flavor, a salt content, something that whet his appetite the more he ate. In between quaffs of warm red wine, it was all he could do to have his mouth full of food at any given moment.

When the plate was clean save for the translucent remnants of red sauce floating in the bottom, Faustus lay down his overworked fork and knife with dainty precision and lifted a napkin to his mouth.

“You’ve got some, ah,” Zelda said as she reached across the table, dabbing Faustus’ stained white jabot with another napkin.

“I suppose that’s what it’s there for,” joked Faustus, offering a self-satisfied smirk.

Zelda’s leg lifted under the table. She delicately slid her foot out of her heeled show and ran it up Faustus’ leg as he surveyed the table.

“Something else I can get you?” Her voice was a coo, pretense melting like butter on a steak.

Faustus had already taken to resting a clawed hand upon the modest swell of his belly, stroking at the space between overtaxed buttons. The plate, piled high, had taken its affect.

“I’m considering seconds,” Faustus said, and Zelda began to heap his plate with meat and potatoes before he could finish the sentence. Pasta with a thick, red meat sauce. Another glass of wine. They had all evening to themselves.

\--

“And what reason would you have to help me fatten him up?” Zelda stirred, reflexively folding her arms and wearing a frown capable of cutting glass.

“Well,” came the husky singsong lilt from the dark brunette, “my own parish was undone by a lack of faith. I’m a witch, I can’t help but care about other witches.” Standing there in a black leather coat, she waited for Zelda’s response, her lips curling ever so slightly. Black leather: actually, very trustworthy.

“You certainly came at the right time, Ms. Wardwell. I had sensed Father Blackwood’s visit was not without purpose.” Zelda added a “hail satan.”

“Hail Satan.”

She passed that test, at least.

Zelda continued, “Your idea isn’t the worst. Devotion to the cause and all, but I am not typically in the business of circumventing church hierarchy to affect some sort of… change on behalf of the Dark Lord’s wishes as delivered through the dreams of an outsider witch. Just how are you privy to His wishes?”

Ms. Wardwell sashayed closer and seated herself on the plush upholstered couch.

“The Dark Lord makes his will known all around us, in little ways. Can you not seem him in everything? You know how we are to place venerate His appearances in our dreams. To deny communion with the Dark Lord… oh I just hope that’s not what’s happening here.”

“No!” Zelda blurted, glancing about furtively. “If this is a test of loyalty to the Dark Lord then by all means I will serve him. The Spellman name is at stake,” and here she mumbled, “as usual, it would seem.”

“Good. I know my way around the kitchen,” Wardwell said easily, “why don’t I help?”

Zelda paused, staring at the other woman, the mysterious Other witch. Finally, a shrug found its way to her shoulders and, there in the darkness of the unlit parlor, late, late at night, she acquiesced.

“Fine. It’s always easier to have another pair of hands for when they struggle.”

\--

The second helping was eaten as easily as the first. Faustus seemed truly enchanted by the fare, slavering onto his jabot and discarding fork and knife, in some cases, for sharp clawed fingers and tongue. Shining grease and claret red sat under his fingernails. The variety of reds had found their way onto his chin, and the second one that had formed beneath it.

“Praise Satan, you can really pack it in,” Zelda gasped under her breath. That would show Hilda. Her cooking, receiving the gluttonous adoration of the High Priest. On the order of the Dark Lord himself! “I can see the Beast in you, it is truly an honor to obey His will.”

“Sister Zelda,” and Faustus stifled a belch, “I ravish this repast. I feel as if I am learning once more the importance of our tenants. This is an experience of Satan’s glory, a miracle in our time.

Silently, but with purpose, Zelda leaned over the table to push a heavy, dark-crusted pie toward Faustus, who found his way into it with his bare hands. He licked them clean of viscous red filling and ignored the steaming heat. The crisp, buttery crust melted in his mouth and, in all likelihood, would add an inch or two to his waistline. The richness was too much to bear for a mortal; but Faustus Blackwood was a witch.

“So, tell me, Sister,” Faustus began between bites, a lack of concern obvious in the way crumbs tumbled from his lips, “how did you know my favorites? Sweet meat pie. Roast human. Mulled blood. This is a winter feast worth of the Devil himself.”

“Why settle for one witch on Feast day when you can have a half dozen humans any time you want?”

“Indeed. Tell me Sister, how do you find the state of our adherence to the cardinal sins, those exalted tenets by which the Dark Lord Satan has given us license to live fee of the false god’s interventions.

Zelda watched him eat as she replied, eyes moving from his hands to his mouth along with the food.

“Dismal, Your Excellency. Many witches avoid the practice of any sins other than Envy and Wrath.”

Faustus nodded around a mouthful of pie and spoke only after a laborious bout of swallow and fitful stifling of another belch. He huffed.

“The flock has been led astray by forces outside my ministrations. Take Gluttony, for example,” his words were devoid of irony, “witches avoid concupiscence of the stomach to adhere to mortal standards of beauty. But we are not mortals, Sister. And how am I to introduce these gifts from the Dark Lord unto my flock other than to embody them?”

Zelda raised her hand in covenant, “Hail Satan.”

Faustus appeared to have something else to say, but his eyes bulged as a will that had crept into him once again overcame him, and his hands found their way to a table. The dishes were not disguised. So much mortal flesh, so many obvious body parts. He savored each and every bite. His teeth seemed sharper.

“I have in this feast strove to represent those ways in which this great sin can be committed. Father, I beg your indulgence,” here she stood up, beaming with pride, and gestured to the centerpiece, the roasted skull of an adult human with the crown split open. “ _Laute_ , luxurious food, which seethes with extravagance, prepared with S _tudiose_ by the hand of a most devoted sister of the church of no small culinary skill.”

Faustus, nodding, echoed her enthusiasm, “ _Nimis_ in amount, given to excess, so much consumed by just one.”

“All that remains of this great sin is for its embodiment, its adopter, to practice _Praeporere_ and _Ardenter_ in his consumption of the unholy meal – and Father, how well you have done this, and how well it suits you. Witches afraid of a few extra pounds don’t understand the sins, Father.”

Faustus smirked rakishly, a doughier exterior and a taut potbelly pushing at the black buttons on his vest. Beneath the lower hem of his vest, his belly sought to overtake his waistband entirely. Still he ate, reaching into dishes that emptied, that he had not thought he could have finished alone. The spirit and will of the Dark Lord flowed through him and pushed him to gluttony, to consume, and to wear this new fat and this overstuffed gut as bloated, portly representations of the sybaritic sermons given by the Dark Lord unto this first witches.

“Sister, your attentions are appreciated. You cook like a poetess writes hymns to Satan. You bring honor to the Spellman household, and I trust you will be honor… to me.”

Zelda could not help herself, she had share such carnalities with this man, this noble warlock, and she pressed herself to his side without consideration of what it might do to the church for them to be involved.

“As High Priest, I take as I see fit. You, Sister Zelda, I am so happy to be given.” He wrapped his arm around Zelda’s waist, and she leaned down to kiss him about his forehead. Her knees bent and she kissed his lips. She would have kissed lower if the dining room had been the bedroom, but, there were other things to consider. The matter, for example, of the red aspic in which were suspended eyes and tongues. Another Blackwood favorite, and an old Spellman recipe she had only ever made once before. As he began to eat it in great heaping forkfuls, she couldn’t help but rub her hand gingerly in circles around his hugely swollen middle. Her interests and those of the Dark Lord seemed to agree.

“The unholy vestments grow tight,” Faustus groaned pleasurably, licking jelly from his lips, “I suppose my stole won’t fit by tomorrow.” He shifted in the chair, the arms of which now gently pressed into his sides. It could have seated two. The movement, along with an intake of breath as he surveyed the remaining scraps of dinner, caused him to burst a button audibly. “Where am I to lead my flock without them?”

“Into your mouth,” Zelda clapped her hand over her lips.

“I like the way you think, Sister, but perhaps such easy candor could be well absolved of you through the… lashing.”

“Of whip?”

“And of tongue.”


End file.
